The Perfect Husband - Lisa Gardner [8]
“Yeah, you’re just a lean, mean killing machine. Get outta here and don’t come back.”
“I . . . I . . . I’ll give you me.”
“What?”
“I’ll give you my body, for the month.”
“Chiquita, you were better off sticking with the money.”
She smiled, her expression apologetic, resigned, knowing. Before he could stop her, she dropped to her knees. “I’ll beg,” she said, and raised imploring hands.
“Oh, for God’s sake!” He crossed the patio and grabbed her shoulders, shaking her as if that would rattle some sense into her head.
“Please,” she said simply. “Please.”
He opened his mouth. He tried to yell and he tried to snarl. Hell, at this point he’d settle for gnashing his teeth. But the words wouldn’t come out. So many years of dirty living, and still he could be thwarted by such a simple thing as the word please.
“Goddammit, it’s September thirteenth and I’m sober. Would someone please get me a drink!”
She took a step to comply, but then she swayed like a laundry sheet, her knees beginning to buckle.
“That’s it. To bed,” he commanded, furious as hell. “Just pick a room, any room with a bed, and lie down in it. I have a couple of hours of tequila left, and I don’t want to see you again until the fourteenth unless you’re bringing me a bottle and have a lime in your navel and salt on your breasts.” He pointed toward the sliding glass door. “Out of my sight!”
She took an obedient step forward and tottered dangerously.
He had no choice. With a muttered oath he swung her up in his arms. She went rigid, her hands balling as if she would fight him, but her run-down state defeated her before he did. She sank into his arms like a balloon that had just had all the air let out. He could feel her rib cage clearly, as tiny as a bird’s. He could smell her, the clear scents of exhaustion and fear and a warmer, mysterious odor. Then he pinpointed it—baby powder. She carried the scent of baby powder.
He almost dropped her.
He didn’t want to know. He refused to know.
The closest bedroom was neat and tidy, thanks to Freddie. J.T. dumped her unceremoniously onto the double bed. “Got any stuff?”
“One bag.”
“Where?”
“The living room.”
“Freddie will bring it in. Car out front?”
“Took a taxi.”
“Used a fake name, Angela?”
“Yes. And I paid cash.”
He grunted. “Not bad.”
“I’m learning,” she told him honestly. “I’m learning.”
“Well, learn how to sleep. It’s as good a skill as any.”
She nodded, but her brown eyes didn’t close. “Are you an alcoholic?”
“Sometimes.”
“What are you the other times?”
“A Baptist. Go to sleep.”
She murmured, “I know why you saved the children.”
“Yeah, right. Good night.”
“Because you missed your family.”
He jolted to a stop in the middle of the room and shuddered. Rachel and Teddy and the golden days of white picket fences and four-door sedans.
She was wrong, of course, his family had come after the orphans. And yet her words cut close. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I have to.” She sighed and her eyes drifted shut. “My daughter and I need you. You’re the only hope we have left.”
“Shit,” J.T. said again, and made a beeline for the margarita mix.
MIDNIGHT. IN DOWNTOWN Nogales, some bars were just opening. It wouldn’t be uncommon for J.T. to be heading out the door at this hour, dressed in jeans and a chambray shirt, pocket full of money and hands desperate for a beer. He’d stumble home at three or four, a couple of six-packs beneath his belt and a woman in his arms. The nights ran together.
This was the first time the man could recall a woman sleeping in the guest room with her own suitcase. The first time he knew a woman was in the house but not in J.T.’s bed. Instead, J.T. was facedown in the living room, the iguana keeping him company.
The house was still, quiet, almost stagnant. And yet the man knew that everything had changed. After three years, the pattern had been broken. His instructions on this point were clear.
He crept through the darkened hall. Moonbeams bathed the living room in silvery light. In one corner a small, yellow-glowing heat lamp illuminated